Dead Man Walking
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: An alternate reality. Halloween-ish / Highlander: The Series companion piece to The Familiar Stranger...


Old Hallows Eve...

BART"S MORGUE

The body was laid out on the table, all the instruments lined up ready. She could delay the inevitable no longer.

Taking a deep breath, Molly Hooper pressed record. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Caucasian male. Age, thirty-eight. Height, six-foot, three inches..."

The preliminaries were completed in a matter of minutes.

Molly mentally squared her shoulders as she now turned to the instruments that were integral to performing an autopsy. As she reached for the scalpel she closed her eyes, reminding herself over and over, 'You can do this, you can do this, you can...'

The sound of a sharp, strangled inhalation of breath had her spinning around, the scalpel slipping from her grasp to drop unnoticed to the floor.

The pathologists wide brown eyes collided with the unmistakable blue-green ones of the dead consulting detective.

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE – JUST OUTSIDE LONDON – 2 HOURS EARLIER

"This will never work."

"It will work, but only as long as we play our parts convincingly," Sherlock assured the man who had taken the name Wallace.

"You're certain they're not like you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. And here he thought The Watcher's knew all there was to know about immortals. Or maybe it was simply that his distant relation hadn't paid enough attention after he'd been recruited by the secretive organisation.

"If they were like me I'd be able to sense them, and I haven't felt any other immortals in the area"

"You're sure he doesn't know what you are?"

"As I've told you before very few people know we exist. As a rule we tend to tell only those we know we can trust. As that usually means friends and loved ones, I've not had to tell many. And then there's The Watcher's..."

Wallace frowned as a worrying scenario occurred to him. In recent years a militant offshoot of The Watcher's, driven by fear that the eventual victor of The Prize would take control of the world, had broken their sacred vows, and had started interfering in the events of The Game. With their knowledge of Immortals, and the only way they could be killed permanently, they had taken things into their own hands. With immortals unable to sense them, a number had been taken by surprise by the unexpected attacks, and had paid with their lives.

"What if it's The Hunters?"

"It's a risk we're going to have to take," Sherlock replied, indicating something over Wallace's shoulder with a slight nod of his head. A car had pulled up a short distance away. "We don't have a choice now, our audience has arrived."

Wallace gave a sigh of resignation. "I really hate this plan..."

From his ill-concealed vantage point, Moriarty's lieutenant, and chief partner-in-crime, Sebastian Moran watched the confrontation between the meddlesome consulting detective and the hit-man he'd hired to bring the annoying investigator to a permanent end.

Moran didn't dare get too near, so he wasn't able to hear what was said. But as far as he was concerned, actions were far more effective than words.

And so:

The two men stood facing each other.

The hit-man pulled out his gun.

The detective attempted to talk his way out of the situation.

The hit-man fired his gun.

The bullet hit the detective in the chest, and he dropped to the ground, dead.

Problem solved...

Satisfied Moran got back into his car and drove off.

BART'S MORGUE

"So how long have you been...?" Molly indicated Sherlock's hastily sheet wrapped undead state with a vague wave of her hand.

"Since 1895 wasn't it? That's the family legend anyway," Wallace supplied as he re-entered the morgue.

Sherlock glared at his distant relation, and Watcher. "What are you doing back here?" he snapped.

"Forgot to return this," Wallace replied, as he handed Sherlock his sword. "Best not to go round unprotected, never know who's likely to turn up."

Sherlock nodded his head in thanks as he took hold of his katana. It was a foolish immortal indeed who went around without their sword to defend themselves.

"And just when were you intending to tell me?"

Wallace knew that tone, and smirked as he watched the usually confident consulting detective genuinely quail in light of his pathologist's obvious wrath.

But before he could enjoy the moment, Wallace found that same displeasure turned on him.

"What are you smiling about?" Molly demanded as she rounded on the Watcher.

It was then Sherlock read the undeniable hurt in her expressive eyes, and he felt like a prize heel as he realised that Molly believed his decision to not tell her was an unspoken admission that he didn't trust her. When in actuality, nothing could be further from the truth.

"Molly," Sherlock said softly, his tone conciliatory as he gently took hold of her shoulders, bending his head a little bit so that they were at the same eyelevel.

The pathologist returned his gaze, the fire that had fuelled her annoyance with the two men gone, to be replaced with wounded uncertainty.

Sherlock pulled her in for a brief hug, before moving to cup her face in his hands.

"I've wanted to tell you about my...situation, condition...whatever you want to call it," he began. "Just how to go about it has always been the problem. I've rarely taken anyone outside of the family into my confidence. Not because I haven't felt I could trust anyone else, but because there hasn't been anyone else that I've cared enough about to tell. It's only been over the last few years that I've made friends with people that I've felt could accept the responsibility, and keep the secret of what I am. And yet I've still remained silent, worried about the burden of that knowledge...on you, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, John and Mary..."

Sherlock paused briefly, trying unsuccessfully to gauge how Molly was taking what he was telling her. In an attempt to add a little levity to his explanation, he added. "And I felt it would be easier if you actually saw it for yourself."

After what felt like an eternity, Molly gave a resigned shake of her head. But when she returned his gaze Sherlock was relieved to see an impish smile on her lips.

"Always dramatics with you," she acknowledged.

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "So, does this mean I'm forgiven then?" his tone hopeful.

In response Molly lunged forward, sliding her fingers through his sinfully soft curls as she pulled his head down, kissing him firmly on the lips.

Sherlock responded in kind, pulling her into his arms.

The detective and his pathologist were too engrossed with each other to notice the precarious nature of the sheet wrapped around Sherlock's hips, as it unravelled.

The Watcher however had.

"And that would be my cue to leave," Wallace noted as he quietly backed out of the room, leaving the couple in peace.


End file.
